AN: Well, I'm veering right back into emotional territory because my brain sometimes always wants me to do angst and wholesome. This is set just after 'His Last Bow,' still the month of December, but with some extra WWI related Christmas lore.

This story takes its name and inspiration from the Sabaton song, 'The Price of a Mile,' which I thought was fitting for something related to Watson's WWI service. I do not claim to own the song. It also takes inspiration from 'Angels Calling,' a song by the same band.

Italics will be my copious references to other sources of ACD canon, conversations, letters, and so on, as per usual. I will also be providing the lyrics from Silent Night in both English and German.

This will be a rare POV switch for me, so keep an eye out for that.

Without further ado!

Warning: Mentions of war/death/general unpleasant war-related topics

Day 7(Prompt 15): From cjnwriter-Christmas card with no return address

What's the Price of a Mile?


Sherlock Holmes's POV

In the years of my occupation as the world's only consulting detective, I came to the deduction that crime and war often perpetuated each other, in ways that even I could not see coming, as much as I loathed admitting that.

War had a part in my development as both man and logician. If it had not been for the war that led me to my companionship with Watson, I doubt that I would have had the same singular experiences in my cases as I did with him. As much as I never showed my emotions, Watson had been an integral part of my life from the moment we first met. There was no case we could not solve together or danger we could not overcome.

Even if I had long since retired to the countryside to take care of my bees, I perhaps knew that I would return to my old occupation in some small way, should my presence be necessary in my retirement. I had done it twice prior, capturing the German spy, Van Bork, and discovering what had killed Fitzroy McPherson along the beach. Perhaps, also out of a vain wish created by my twilight years, I assumed that I would spare Watson from pain, as he felt so many years earlier at Reichenbach Falls, by being at his side if he so requested it.

War was something I could not follow him into. I never could; war took a stronger man than I.

This war, known by the moniker of the Great War, was caused by a crime. I witnessed the entirety of Europe be plunged into war and bloodshed after word broke that the Archduke of Austria-Hungary was assassinated by a Serbian in June. I knew what power war held; it had the singular capacity to drag those who lacked the logical mind into losing their lives by the thousands.

When England was dragged alongside them, Watson answered the call as a Doctor, leaving for the front lines in August.

In my logical mind, I knew Watson could handle whatever this war threw at him from his prior experiences in Afghanistan and following me on my cases. Monstrous hounds, murderous serpents, and misaligned schemes for power did not a war make, but in my heart, I had hoped those experiences helped Watson in some small way since I could not join.

Perhaps, if Watson found this journal, he'd laugh at my usage of poetic terms for our experiences. If I was a younger man, I would have done the same. I was not a poet back then.

The war had forced me to temporarily relocate back to my old lodgings in 221B with my bees, as my cottage threatened to crumble with every bullet or whistling shell that soared overhead. I did not wish to be the next casualty of a stray bullet or see my bees be wiped out by mortar-fire. With my move came the letters that Watson had been writing to me about his experiences on the front.

I was perched on my favorite armchair, pouring over one of these letters that came by three days before Christmas. I had read each of them and responded in kind, every letter detailing what was occurring for Watson, apart from this one. With Christmas having come and gone, I found myself responding on Saint Stephen's Day, rather than as soon as I had gotten the letter.

"My dear Holmes, I had hoped that this letter would find you after conditions had improved. I am currently stationed within the Western Front's trenches after Ypres, huddled inside a room carved out of the mud. I have treated all manner of injuries, wounds, broken bones in my time here in the war already, but yet I fear the worst is still yet to come. The captains often loudly proclaim that we should be home by Christmas. However, our ranks' morale has dwindled to the point I can see hope snuff out like a dying flame in a soldier's eyes. I have yet to lose hope that I should return back from the front and see you and your apiary; I have to keep face for the soldiers, after all. Are you yourself keeping well?" It read.

I paused, picking up a pen in my hand to write a separate letter to respond to Watson. Bees paled in comparison to the grand scheme of war, but my bees had long since retreated due to the December air, though they thrived.

There was something about watching something grow under one's care that entranced humanity, I often saw—usually in the direction of having children. I desired no such life, but the bees were intelligent creatures, a task to keep my mind in working form, and the familiarity of home Watson seemed desperate to find amongst mud and corpses.

A sharp knock on my door interrupted my thoughts on what to write, as Mrs. Hudson, still tending to 221B Baker Street after Watson and I's departures, poked her head in. She had aged quite considerably as I had, but our landlady still held the same thoughtful look in her eyes that had garnered my respect for her long ago.

"Mr. Holmes, it's Inspector Hopkins for you. He says it's not a case, but you would be terribly interested in what he has to show you." Said she. I placed down my pen, leaning intently forwards. Hopkins had taken over Lestrade's cases, as the Inspector had joined Watson in the war effort on the Western Front. Once prior in my retirement for advice, he had wired me, but I could deduce that this was different. But to what degree, I had yet to know.

"Send him in, Mrs. Hudson," I said, waving her on. Not a moment after, Inspector Hopkins appeared in the doorway, clutching half of a piece of paper in his hand. I offered him the usage of the settee across from me, which he readily obliged. "What is it, Inspector?" I asked.

"I'm sorry to disturb you in your retirement, Mr. Holmes, but I found this paper earlier, and I thought you should see it." Said he, passing it over to my open palm. "It's a Christmas card with no return address—rather, half of one."

"Then why did you wish to bring it to my attention?" I inquired, not looking down at it yet as I scanned the Inspector before me. "Whatever this must be, it has you excited enough to sprint here on foot from Saint James's Park despite the mud and slush on the streets," I added as Inspector Hopkins startled his attention back to me with amused laughter.

"Why, Mr. Holmes, you're as keen as ever! You've been out in Sussex for seven years since I last recall, and yet you still recognize where mud originates from?" He asked.

I could not help but give a brief amused smile to Inspector Hopkins, as I pointed to the speckled mud on his trouser legs. "You and I both know, Inspector, that there has been considerable snowfall and rain this year in Central London to create such a concoction," I said.

"Perhaps that should have been obvious to me, then." Inspector Hopkins mused, before his face and jaw set as he regarded me. "I brought this to your attention, Mr. Holmes, because that very half-a-Christmas card with no return address is from Doctor Watson, addressed to you."

There have been recorded times in my life by Watson and myself in which my brain momentarily ceased to function, as my heart seized control. This was one of those times. Why only leave half of a card? How long had Watson been in London, without my notice? What I could muster out of my brief logical stoppage came out as, "How did you know it was from Watson?"

"Take a look, Mr. Holmes." Came the reply. I tried to hide the slight tremor of old age in my fingers as I opened the card, recognizing what Inspector Hopkins had seen as belonging to Watson.

"My dear Holmes, if this should find you as it does, I have paid the blood price that war requires of every man that walks its path. I am dreadfully sorry I could not make it home for Christmas, my dear friend—my retirement that I had mentioned in a prior letter can not come." It was undoubtedly Watson's writing, and, to the slight note of anguish that crept its way into my chest, almost a mirror image to the note I left him at the Falls. The card had stopped there, cut by a military knife by the tears in the material, which began to form the web that stretched before me.

There was something about a blood price that Watson had paid. I knew that it was not his life if it had been found by Inspector Hopkins this morning. But if it was not his life, what was it? I lacked sufficient enough data to go off of to make a deduction and locate Watson within London. A new yet familiar feeling arose in me at the thought of this new mystery involving my dear friend's whereabouts.

A frisson of worry. I had felt worried before, but only twice to this level—after Watson was shot by that American, and three days after that case, and never like this.

After the realization, I got to my feet immediately, depositing the card within my trouser-pocket and throwing on my coat. "Inspector Hopkins, are you up for a stroll in Saint James Park with me?" I asked. My companion smiled, rising to his feet after I was fully dressed.

"Indeed, Mr. Holmes, I'll follow your lead." Said he.


Saint James's Park was dreadfully quiet this time of day, as most of London's commonplace would be spending time offering each other gifts. While usually, I would find this atmosphere soothing, I loathed it. Perhaps I wanted to see some hint of a person; that way, I could pry myself away from my worries so I could focus. Other people that lack the singular logical mind are easier to handle than my agitation.

Worrying wasn't going to find Watson any quicker, I knew that. Yet, I was beginning to hear more of my fears pulsing through my mind with each step I took into the park. That Watson had met some horrible fate and was here in London to die at home. What is the matter with me? I know Watson isn't dying; I would know if he was.

"Here's the spot where I found it, Mr. Holmes." Inspector Hopkins's voice cut into my turmoil of thoughts, kneeling down in the wintery mixture to a spot of grass peeking out of it. It was a singular thing to come back to a scene of a puzzle in the heart of London. The old thrill of a case seeped back into me, and at once, my senses were all on alert.

"Watson was indeed here, Inspector," I said, kneeling beside the faint impression of his bootprint. Before he went off to war, I had seen him wearing the distinct pair of boots that would provide this type of print in the mud. "He had recently been provided new ammunition boots before going out into the Western Front."

Inspector Hopkins gave a small sigh as he shook his head. "Lestrade has been writing to me from there, as Doctor Watson is doing from there. He says that they stay in rooms carved of mud, and often, their greatest foe when they're not throwing themselves over the trench is the rats." He said.

"Watson's first letter was about a group of rats he saw in the trenches." I chuckled before stiffly getting back to my feet. As I aged, every consequence came back to haunt me. This time, both of my knees groaned in protest, a brutally honest reminder that I had jumped out of a window of the Diogenes Club, an admittedly foolish thing to do. "As for his whereabouts now?" I glanced down at the bootprint, following its impression towards a rather familiar figure.

"Stamford?" I called. The man who had introduced me to Watson had undoubtedly aged, his hair completely white. He turned, letting out a sharp bark of laughter.

"Mr. Holmes! It's been too long; how the devil are you?" He asked, striding forwards and shaking my hand. To-day seems like a day for history to repeat itself, I mused.

"Inspector Hopkins and I have found ourselves in a bit of a puzzle, my dear fellow, we've been seeking the whereabouts of Watson," I said. His eyes lit up in recognition as if he had not heard that name in some time.

"Why didn't you come to find me then, old boy? I talked to Watson this morning; he's finalizing things with his practice. He's come home; there was something that happened to bring the injured soldiers all home for Christmas." Said he.

"Injured?" I asked, inwardly cursing as my voice once again came out with a tremor. I am looking more like an old man than someone with a brain in his skull. I hissed to myself.

"Yes, though I think Watson would like to see you for himself on that end. He did say something about you, fretting for his well-being if he immediately showed up at your lodgings like a ghost." The man remarked.

Watson, even when injured, always found a way to keep his pawky humor. That was ideal for a soldier returning home. He has his mind and his heart still intact, despite what he went through.

"Excuse me, Stamford, is it?" Inspector Hopkins chimed in, offering his hand to Stamford. "Inspector Stanley Hopkins, did you perhaps meet a man named Lestrade that was with Watson?"

"Why, yes! If you both take a cab to Watson's practice, you can catch them before they go their separate ways." Came the response. Inspector Hopkins made a particular noise that could only be described as a sigh of relief as he turned to me.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, I'd be happy to accompany you to Watson's practice." Said he, leading the way on foot with much quicker strides. "I'll go slow since you're older."

"Not much older than you, young man." I chided, following after the Inspector at a brisk pace to prove my point.


Watson's POV

It was something of a miracle that I was back home in London, alive. Filing papers for my official retirement had become a fever dream or an image of war still stuck in my mind, and yet, here I was, signing my name at the bottom of the last page to pass my practice over to my younger companions. I met them while I was staying in a local inn for Christmas, as I had wanted to slowly return to civilian life.

"You're officially retired, Watson," Lestrade remarked from his spot on a nearby sofa, nursing a brandy between his hands. "What do you imagine yourself to do now, now that you're not in the war?"

I sat back, glancing out the window with my good eye, a deft reminder of what both had the potential to save and ruin my life. Christmas Eve, before everything stopped, there had been an ambush trench raid in the morning. I had not known, as I was spending my time treating a private's rat bites. When I looked up, I had completely lost vision in my right eye.

They said I had taken a bullet point-blank in my eye that was meant for my brain. If I had not been found in time, I would have passed beyond this veil, watching as soldiers cleaned my brains off of the mud. And still, I had paid the price with my vision. One good eye did not allow me to be a doctor any longer. Even if I still have my brain.

"I do not know, Lestrade. Before midnight on Christmas Eve, I thought I'd be buried alongside my wife. But now that I'm here, I suppose the only thing to do would be is join Holmes in retirement." I remarked.

My relationship with Sherlock Holmes was never something anyone could define as normal. We had met by chance, both of us conversing with Stamford, whom I ran into as a newly christened minister. At first, I had presumed him to be merely odd, nothing more. Now after over three decades of knowing him, through missing persons, three-quarters, duels with evil geniuses and operations to take down conmen, I knew he was the second brother I never had.

How would he see me now? I wondered, reaching up to touch the bandages over my eye. I doubt that I could ever see out of that eye again, let alone provide any usage to Holmes in his caring for bees.

A sharp knock sounded at the door as both Lestrade, and I spun around in our seats to attention. "I had made notice that my practice was closed," I muttered as Lestrade rose to his feet.

"I can get it, Watson." He slowly limped over to the door after putting down his brandy, peering out the window beforehand. After a brief pause, he let out a slow, wheezing chuckle before throwing the door open.

"Young Hopkins!" He said with a delighted cry, as the Inspector took the offered hand that Lestrade had put out, sweeping him into a hug.

"You're alive, you lucky bastard, you're alive!" Inspector Hopkins murmured, as both Inspector and now military man embraced each other.

"Did you think I'd really leave you before you got buried in my cases?" Lestrade chuckled softly. "You've become a wonderful friend over our time together."

"Watson?" A well-remembered voice sounded, interrupting Hopkins and Lestrade, and my good eye widened. In wandered Holmes, older, slightly wrinkled, but with the same hawk-like visage and keenly alert gray gaze, I always knew him for.

"It's me, my dear Holmes," I said as Holmes strode across the floor, immediately gripping me by the arms as he scanned my form over. "I'm home." As much as that sounded impossible to my ears, I could not help but notice the effect it had on Holmes. Akin to that day we encountered Killer Evans, his face cracked, worry etched into his wrinkled features.

"Who did this to you, friend Watson?" Came Holmes's immediate response, raising a hand to touch the bandages over my eye gently. If he were any younger, I would have interpreted his reaction as one of wanting to chase down whatever person who had emptied the bullet into my skull. This feels like he genuinely wants to know. To see if I am alright.

"A German," I said, easing up slightly to the touch over my injury, "There was a trench raid early on Christmas Eve that I did not know about. I—I had thought angels would have surely called my name." I admitted softly.

Holmes lowered his hand at that, his lips trembling. "I had feared the worst, perhaps in my older imagination, that you came here to die." He admitted softly. "How is it you returned home? Stamford divulged that there was something that sent you home due to your injuries."

I exchanged a look with Lestrade as we both pondered on how to explain our miracle. It was unbelievable when it happened, and it still felt like a fairy-tale. How do I explain?

"Shall we converse on our way to supper?" Lestrade finally suggested, after a few moments. We all consigned our agreement before heading out the door. I offered Holmes my arm, and he wound it around mine as we often did before the war.

As we strolled arm-in-arm down the mud-covered streets beneath a slight drizzle, I collected myself slowly before I told what had happened to Holmes, and Hopkins, who had linked arms with Lestrade.


Watson's POV, Christmas Eve at night, 1914

The pain had my eye throbbing. I could not treat patients, nor could I sleep with the sound of shells creating a nightmarish lullaby in my ears when I tried to rest. If necessary, I had been delegated to be a messenger whilst they figured out what to do with me during trench raids and attempts to move but a mile.

In my haste, I had written Holmes a Christmas Card, in the thought that I would not see him for the rest of the year, or keep up my end of the promise that I would join him and his bees in Sussex after I was shot through the eye.

I turned the card over in my hands, regretting the hasty, hopeless scrawl that I had written to my friend. This is not who I was or who I strived to be. Without a moment's hesitation, I took out my knife, slicing the card in halves and sticking them in my pockets. I would have to find a way to throw them out later.

"Second Lieutenant Watson!" Called a voice, as the face of Lestrade, my old friend and Captain, appeared at my shoulder, his face a storm of emotions I knew not of.

"Yes, Captain?" I asked, a bit of playfulness leaking into my tone as I tucked my knife away. He had first preened like a bird upon reaching the rank of Captain, and it was something I could not fault him for.

"Do you hear it, Watson?" Asked he, the inner turmoil on his face switching to curious delight. "We have been planning an ambush to retaliate for this morning, but—" He cut off, gesturing to No Man's Land above us. "The shells have ceased." He whispered.

I pricked my ears, at once on alert to the lack of sounds of war that I had grown so used to as of late. "Are they commencing an ambush again?" I asked.

"I do not know, but the others have said they heard singing from the other trench, instead of a usual shelling." Captain Lestrade answered. As if his words had summoned it, I heard the quiet, haunting refrains of some Christmas carol in German that I did not recognize.

"Stille Nacht… heilige Nacht… Alles schlaft; einsam wacht—"

However, soldiers around me exchanged knowing glances with each other. They faced the night sky as they began to sing with trepidation.

"Silent Night… Holy Night… all is calm, all is bright—" Their song was quieter, drowned by the song of the Germans. We leaned against the front trench wall, mesmerized by the sound. Some other's fingers twitched over their weapons, peering from over the trench in suspicion.

"Round yon virgin, mother and child!" Our voices rose slightly, and I could not help but sing the words under my breath, even if I did not know where this would lead to.

"Nur das traute hochhilege Paar." Came the response. From there, it was an exchange. Whenever they sang, we echoed loud enough for our entire trenches to hear. More joined us in listening, faces to the night without a momentary care for our safety.

"Sleep in heavenly peace, sleep in heavenly peace!"

"Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh, Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh!" A cheer arose from our side as they finished, one so moving that I was required to bite back the frozen, salty sensation stinging my eye.

It seemed as though we were all swept into the same sense of emotional relief. Months of blood, agony, and anguish, and one clear night, we could stop. I do not remember who climbed out of the trenches first, joining the foes who had raised a white flag. Still, soon I found myself outside of the veritable prison I called my new home, milling amongst the enemies that had been willing to kill us mere moments prior.

Holmes would have scoffed at this. I thought to myself as I exchanged warm greetings with a young private who handed me a small gift of chocolate for the holiday. Enemies never sang to prevent death, stop Fate's inevitable hand, or exchange gifts while standing on blood.

"Second Lieutenant Watson, Captain Lestrade!" Our general, General Alexander, strode up to us, a rare smile on his face after I had given the private one of my rations. "You gentlemen are getting the best possible news a soldier can get."

Captain Lestrade frowned, shifting on his infected feet. "Yes, sir?" Asked he. His voice came out faint against the sounds of laughter and merriment, as well as what appeared to be a game of football weaving around the barbed wire.

"Due to your injuries, you both are going home, effective tomorrow morning." The general said before moving to meet with an opposing general. I froze, my heart soaring in my chest. I was going home. However, one thought arose in my mind when I regarded what that meant for me.

What did I have to go home to?


Sherlock Holmes's POV, Saint Stephen's Day, 1914

As I finished listening to Watson's tale, the weight which had crushed my logical mind into the background lifted. He had survived his wounds, but there was something about the events that brought him home was something I did not yet respond to.

I had often likened war to turn good men into puppets, besides my thoughts earlier in the day. They were willing to fight and die for the singular 'logical' cause that they needed to do so. For them to just stop was impossible. War did not function like that.

I glanced over at Watson, a pain lancing through my heart as I regarded the injury that robbed his right eye of sight until it was looked at once more. His other eye betrayed an expression devoid of emotion, of intense despair, like what I had seen in Watson when we first met. Lestrade bore the same expression, both men's faces bearing what they had seen throughout their war.

As a former detective and their friend, I knew what I needed to do. They were my clients once more and under my care. But first, I turned towards Watson, retrieving the half of the Christmas card from my pocket. "Inspector Hopkins brought this back to me at Baker Street, my dear Watson," I said as Watson grabbed the card.

"You could wager why I wrote that card at my lowest, Holmes." Said he, as Lestrade nodded in utter understanding.

"I could deduce it from you using your knife on the card, Watson," I said with what I hoped was sympathy towards my friend. "And you had dropped it without the realization of doing so when you went to meet Stamford this morning, forgetting about it until now."

"Yes, that's entirely correct, Holmes. But, let's return to the statement prior, you have returned?" Watson questioned, shaking his head at my deduction.

"I do not enjoy listening to the symphonies conducted by war," I said with a shrug. "But Baker Street shall be your home once more until you find it fit to join me in Sussex after the war."

"You mean that, Holmes?" Watson's voice came out in a whisper as I clasped my hand around his. "You would not find me to be a burden?"

"I do, and I could never see you as such, Watson. As I said to you many years prior, I keep my promises to my clients. And that offer extends to you as well, Captain Lestrade, Inspector Hopkins. My lodgings shall serve as your place of respite while you recover." I declared. Even in my old age, I could not resist a touch of the dramatic.

I had expected Watson to respond, as the rain grew in fervor above our heads when we approached a nearby dining establishment that had opened a month prior. Instead, I was greeted with the sudden sensation of being pulled into a hug by Watson, his arms wrapped round my shoulders.

A hug? It had been a while since I was shown such a sign of innate affection—and had since assumed that I had forgotten how to return a hug. Before I felt the sensation of Captain Lestrade and Inspector Hopkins joining in on the gesture, my arms remained at my sides.

In the downpour of rain, I felt my logical mind placed into the background once more as I regarded the men, no, my dear friends round me. This impossibility brought Watson and Lestrade home, I said to myself. I can put my lack of belief in it aside. My lips then betrayed me once more, trembling as I reached up, hugging all three, not caring what the common devil saw.

And for once while hugging, I did not wish to let go.


AN: And that's Chapter 7! I always pictured the more time that Holmes and Watson spent with one another, the more they would rub off on each other, that's why if Holmes seems a little more willing to be poetic, and Watson more stubborn than usual, that's why. I wanted to do something at least a little bittersweet in regards to World War One. (Also, this is my first time writing Holmes in retirement, admittedly.) Also, if I seem repetitive, I wanted to follow a 'history repeats itself' sort of theme for this.

I am so sorry I couldn't finish with you all; life sucker punched me repeatedly. It's been a wild December, but I'll at least give you my plans for finishing up.

I'll be updating more sporadically, but I'll be using my December 2021 to finish up if I don't. I mean… probably? I'm still new to this challenge and don't want to overstay my welcome.

I want to thank Hades Lord of the Dead for reaching out to me and everyone who I've met since then. This has been amazingly fun for me to do. Y'all are excellent writers; I hope I can get to know you all better in 2021!

As usual, my references are copious. They are as follows: 'The Hound of the Baskervilles,' 'The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter,' 'Without the Pulse,' 'Fate,' 'A Duel of 88', 'The Adventure of the Speckled Band,' 'The Final Problem,' 'The Adventure of the Empty House,' 'A Study in Scarlet,' 'The Adventure of the Lion's Mane,' 'His Last Bow,' and so much more. This also takes heavy roots from the real-life Christmas truce of 1914.

Finally, I know hugging between men kind of died out at the end of the Victorian era, but I wanted to end this on a wholesome note for New Year's.

Happy New Year's to you and yours!

Cheers,

A Very Holmesian Christmas